The afternoon sun washed the sidewalk in gold as Seraphine stood outside the elementary school gates.

  She blended in with the crowd: just another woman waiting, hands tucked behind her back, expression soft.

  Inside, the final bell rang.

  A burst of laughter and footfalls exploded from the open doors.

  Parents leaned forward. Children ran out in waves — backpacks bouncing, hair ribbons flying, uniforms wrinkled from recess.

  Seraphine didn’t move.

  Her eyes scanned faces the way sharpshooters sight targets.

  Then she saw her.

  A little girl — brown hair, bright smile — skipping like the world held no darkness.

  She giggled, waving a drawing over her head.

  “Daddy!”

  Marco stepped out of the waiting crowd.

  His face lit up — pure joy, unguarded.

  He scooped the girl into his arms and spun her around, both laughing like fools.

  She pressed her cheek against his ear and babbled about her day: a spelling test, a new friend, a teacher with funny shoes.

  Marco listened with every fiber of his being, nodding, smiling, asking questions.

  To a stranger, he looked like a perfect father.

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  To Seraphine, he looked like a lie with legs.

  She watched without blinking. No storm on her face. No rage.

  Just a hollow stillness — the eye of something catastrophic.

  When they walked away together — hand in hand — Seraphine finally turned.

  Bright lights.

  Soft pop music.

  Rows of dresses fluttering like petals.

  Seraphine moved through it slowly, fingertips brushing fabrics she might wear to a wedding, a baptism, a funeral.

  She was still deciding which.

  A cheerful voice cut through the air.

  “Sera?”

  Seraphine blinked — and smiled instinctively.

  Marco’s wife stood there — holding a hanger, hair in a neat ponytail, employee badge clipped to her blouse.

  “Oh my gosh!” Seraphine gasped in surprise, hand flying to her chest. “You work here?”

  The wife laughed — warm and trusting. “Since last year! Extra income never hurts.”

  Seraphine reached out and squeezed her hand. “No wonder you look so good around clothes!”

  Compliments softened the woman instantly.

  “Come on, I’ll help you,” she offered. “You’re pretty enough to wear anything in here.”

  Seraphine’s smile widened.

  She let herself be guided through aisles — trying on colors, patterns, styles.

  They talked.

  Not deep secrets, just harmless threads; favorite coffee shops, annoying customers, how fast kids grow, how hard it is to find time for yourself.

  Seraphine nodded and laughed in all the right places, and the wife — starved for adult conversation — blossomed.

  Seraphine wasn’t acting here.

  She liked the woman.

  Or at least, she liked the version standing in front of her — unaware, innocent, kind.

  A life untouched by hushed cries or bolted doors.

  Seraphine picked a dress — flattering, elegant.

  Paid for it without flinching at the price.

  “Thank you,” she said, genuinely.

  But before she could leave, the wife grabbed her arm — excitement bursting.

  “Oh! You should visit us!” She scribbled her address on a receipt. “Come by this weekend. I’ll cook! Marco will be thrilled to see you.”

  Seraphine covered her mouth, eyes wide as if overwhelmed.

  “Really? I’d love that!”

  “Please do,” the wife said earnestly. “We don’t get many guests.”

  Seraphine hugged her lightly.

  “I’ll be there.”

  She stepped through the automatic doors.

  The second they slid closed behind her, her expression dropped like a mask falling to the floor.

  No smile.

  No warmth.

  No softness.

  Just still, silent purpose.

  Seraphine stared ahead — eyes glittering with something deadly and fixed.

  The invitation had been given.

  The door was open.

  And now the game was fully hers.